A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  “What do you know of Viking law?” His voice sounded like the growl of a bear about to attack. Bitterness filtered into his eyes, turning them to mottled jade.

  She inclined her head. “Granted, I know nothing of that. But I do know for your innocence to ring true you must have Karl Wormtongue recant his words.” She glanced at him. “For that there is no price too great.”

  “Any price is too great.” He held out his empty hands. “I have nothing.”

  “You have Arni. You have a longship. You have men.”

  “Men with their own paths to follow and who wanted to throw you and your women from the ship,” he reminded her. “They’ll not be pleased to see you with me still.”

  She thought of her chest of riches buried securely beneath Falkenstead. How easy that would be to turn over the chest to him. Right now she would gladly give it up just to return to Frisia and find Martinga, if she still lived. However, the chest lay buried in Frisia and served no purpose for her here. “If I recover your gold for you, would you let me go?”

  He snorted. “You have no gold.”

  A trio of bareheaded Vikings, boisterous and well in their cups, wobbled past on the other side of the cart and she waited for the hubbub to die before she answered.

  “No.” She smiled, a rueful little moue that twisted her mouth to one side. “But I can spin gold.” She pulled forward a fold of her skirt. “My skill is great. Let me weave cloth for you to sell. I saw the stalls selling cloth when we walked through the market. Let me have a stall of my own. When you have recovered what you paid for me, Bertrada and I will go.”

  Thorvald shook his head. “I cannot speak for Bertrada, she belongs to Arni now.”

  Odso, she forgot Arni now owned Bertrada. But weaving required time, ample time to allow her to think on how to save Bertrada too. “If I covered our price, would you release me? Let me earn my freedom.”

  “Where did you come by that notion?” He looked at her, brow furrowed, two deep lines scoring his forehead vertically from the bridge of his nose.

  “The woman in front of me at the slave market knew of Viking ways. Slaves can earn their freedom.” She made her voice confident, daring him to refute her.

  “What value is there in women’s work? What you suggest is ridiculous.”

  “Let me try,” she coaxed, as he heaved himself to his feet.

  “How do you propose to weave when you have no loom, no shuttle, no yarn? Besides, there’s nothing to hold me in Hedeby while you weave. Nay.” He shook his head. “The idea is a foolish one. Leave me be while I think on what to do.” He stepped away and turned before spinning back. “Everyone knows of you now. I suggest you stay here in our camp where I can keep you safe.”

  Disappointment washed through her that he dismissed her offer so hastily. It made her words sharp. “How do you propose to keep me safe when you have no sword?”

  “A loss I also have you to thank for.” He waved at Halldor and gestured him over. “Watch her,” he said. At Halldor’s nod, Thorvald looked at Gisela. “No one will bother you with Halldor at your side. I’ll have no more talk of weaving or of freedom.”

  This time when he turned away, he strode off back towards Hedeby proper, arms swinging and tawny hair ruffled by the breeze.

  Gisela watched him go, disappointment still bubbling through her chest. For a brief moment, she had seen Thorvald’s face soften and thought he would accept her offer. He hadn’t though. Instead he pushed her away and shrugged back under a robe of bitterness. Not that she blamed him for that; the pain of family betrayal would craze any man.

  She considered what he told her, that he’d been falsely accused of a murder not of his doing. Therein lay the key to her freedom. If he could regain his good name, he would have no further need of her and what she could bring him.

  How to have Wormtongue admit to his role in the misdeed was a difficult enough riddle for Thorvald to solve, let alone a captive woman with no resources.

  * * *

  Thorvald stood on the shoreline of Hedeby’s bustling harbor, where the curved breakwater surged away from the beach. To his right, two small longships were pulled up on shore for repair—tar being applied to the hull of one, while on the other, men lashed freshly hewn planks together with wiry spruce roots to build up the sides. Farther down, a stouter, sturdier merchant ship rested on rollers such that half of it was out of water. Slaves carried bales of hides and furs into its hold, overseen by their bored master, who shook his battle axe at them from time to time in an attempt to hasten their steps up and down the gang plank.

  Desolation slapped him much like the waves slapped at his toes. Gulls keened overhead, their mournful cries perfectly mirroring his mood. A stiff breeze raked his face and he sucked it in by the lungful, waiting for the crisp, clean scent to settle his thoughts and clear his mind, waiting for the gusts to carry away the numbness chilling his veins since he regained Gisela.

  He didn’t know what to do. The goal driving him all these years past had disintegrated, leaving him adrift without anchor, without purpose. He remembered what Gisela said, that buying innocence proved nothing. That what mattered was for Karl Wormtongue to tell the truth.

  Yet how could he bring that about? His half-brother hated him for the actions of Thorvald’s father. Actions his father could never explain away for he, killed in battle long ago, now spent his days in Valhalla.

  Thorvald rubbed his neck, trying to massage away the memories stirred up by the encounter with Karl. Instead, the memories fettered his thoughts like a heavy iron chain.

  Thorvald had gone hunting alone for deer that day and came back to find the neighboring jarl dead and the jarl’s family at his door crying for vengeance. Karl stepped forward then to accuse Thorvald of shoving the jarl over the edge of a cliff into the sea below. Thorvald’s protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears, and the matter was brought to court in Kaupang.

  As a callow lad of fifteen years at the time, he lacked the knowledge to mount a defense, especially as Karl played on the sympathy of the court. His half-brother recounted stories of his desolate childhood and showed the puckered scar on his right arm, put there, he claimed, when an angry Thorvald flung a burning log at him. In reality, Karl had tripped and fallen in the fire pit.

  Nevertheless, Karl’s hate served him well, for the court chose to believe him and banished Thorvald, the eldest son. As eldest son, Sun Meadow—the farm of his father and his father before him—should have gone to Thorvald.

  It hadn’t.

  It had gone instead to his half-brother.

  Later, Karl came by to gloat as Thorvald waited to climb into the longship carrying him away to his banishment. “I did it!” Karl howled with laughter. “I pushed him into the sea. They believed me when I said it was you.” He wiped away tears of mirth.

  “Why?” Bewildered, Thorvald could only stare. It was then he saw the edge of madness breaking through the triumph in Karl’s eyes.

  “Because he spat on me as the bastard son.” Karl’s lip curled. “Because you have everything and I have nothing.”

  At the naked hate splayed on Karl’s face, Thorvald’s head reeled and he vomited, a bilious, stinking mass of betrayal, which splashed his boots and made Karl laugh even harder.

  “No!” croaked Thorvald. “No!” He lifted his hands towards the ship’s master, who sneered and turned away because the punishment had been set by then and Karl’s confession bore little consequence.

  With that, Thorvald left Agdir. Much had passed in the intervening five years, yet nothing had passed, for he again sat with nothing and Karl still held Sun Meadow.

  A sand piper scurried past, breaking him free from the chains of the past. Thorvald lifted his gaze to eye a large longship moored farther out against the thick wooden poles of the breakwater. A smaller boat broke away from it, bristling with oars and full of men eager to sample Hedeby’s pleasures. Men as eager as he had been yesterday riding into Hedeby with his prize, Gisela, before his dreams
crumbled like last winter’s hay.

  Again, Gisela’s words swirled through his mind. “You don’t prove your innocence by buying it.”

  The truth. How simple. How right for Gisela to voice it, for her golden hair, radiant like the beams of the summer sunshine, resembled that of Balder, the god of light and truth.

  He watched another ship unfurl its red and white diamond patterned sail and drift slowly into the channel, propelled by oars until it caught the breeze and moved off on its own. Gradually the weight lifted from his shoulders, as gently as that ship catching the current.

  The truth.

  He would talk to Karl here in Hedeby, far from Agdir’s shores, where Karl’s accusations held no weight. If Karl did not agree to return to Agdir and tell the true story to the court, then perhaps he, Thorvald, would seek Balder’s assistance. Surely he could find something of worth to sacrifice to appease the golden haired god. Sacrifice was not something he usually practiced, for what need did gods have of human goods where they lived? But his desperation called for action.

  Nay. He shook his head. He much preferred being master of his own destiny. A man must make his own way in this earthly world and not rely on gods and sacrifices.

  Gisela’s image shimmered in front of him before he dashed it away with a knuckled fist.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the next few hours, Thorvald searched Hedeby for his half-brother: through the meadow with its scattering of trader’s camps, around the market place and slave market, and from one public room to the next. He didn’t question the futility of his search and what would happen when, or if, he found Karl. In all likelihood, Karl would not admit the truth, for he had no reason to—he was not the banished one. Thorvald only knew he had to occupy his mind and time with something lest he go mad with the injustice of it all.

  Everywhere he searched, he received the same answers, “Nay, the bald headed man is not here.” “Nay, the bald headed man walked by but didn’t stop.” “Nay, try across the way.” With every nay, his despair grew again, nudging him like a foal nudges its dam for milk.

  He ended up at the same ale house where only yesterday the patrons had speculated on the Frisian maid. There he didn’t find Wormtongue, but he did find a jolly Arni. Heels thudding dully on the dirt floor, Thorvald stomped over and slid onto the stool Arni pulled out for him.

  “I thank you for Bertrada.” Arni lifted a hand in salute; his eyes twinkled with unusual good humor. “She suits me just fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear at least one of us is happy with our purchase.”

  Arni raised an eye brow at Thorvald’s growl then waved over the bar maid, who again eyed Thorvald speculatively before leaning over the table and waggling her shoulders in an effort to make her scrawny breasts dance.

  “Have you seen Wormtongue?” Thorvald swiveled around on his stool to scan the room even though he knew the man wasn’t there.

  “He left, sailed earlier this afternoon. Halldor saw him leave.”

  “By the gods, no!” Thorvald’s roar rent the room and stilled its occupants to sudden silence. He slapped his hand on the table top so hard his palm stung.

  After a few shocked seconds, chatter and guffaws filled the air again. Thorvald gazed skyward then heaved his shoulders. “The fates toy with me,” he muttered.

  “Why does Wormtongue’s departure matter to you?” Arni gave Thorvald a quizzical glance. “I would think you’d be glad to see the back of that swine.”

  “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “Then it’s just as well he’s gone. You would only be wasting your breath. Or talking to his sword.”

  The barmaid shuffled over with two dripping mugs of ale and held one out to Arni, the other to Thorvald. Deliberately, she brushed her fingers against his as he grabbed it. He shook his head and gave her a warning glance. As much as he respected her tenacity, he had no desire to lie with her. Thankfully, she took his meaning and scuttled away.

  He looked back at Arni to gauge his reaction. “Then I’ll return to Agdir.”

  “You’re going back to Agdir empty-handed?” Arni’s mouth dropped open. “Did the gods strike you in the head? No, wait.” He leaned forward on one elbow, propped his chin on his fist and gave Thorvald a withering stare. “It’s her. She’s a witch sent by Loki to turn your wits into pap. I knew it. I knew she put a hex on you.”

  “I want to go home. If I can get Wormtongue to tell the truth, I will.”

  “You’ll pay with your life.” Arni’s ominous voice sent a chill across Thorvald’s scalp, sending a ripple of goose bumps clear down his arms. “At the very least, you will have to fight him. You must win, for only the innocent win in trial by combat.”

  “If that’s what I must do, then I will.” Thorvald raked his hands through his hair. “I’m tired of the warrior life. I don’t want to fight strange men in even stranger lands anymore. I want to sleep in my own home and have a farm, and keep cows and goats, and raise a family. I want a wife.” Thorvald held out his hands, palms up. “Who will take an outlaw to husband? Riding the waves forever is no life for a woman.”

  “Would this wife have hair of golden flax and eyes of a clouded winter sunset?” Arni raked him over with a shrewd glance. “She dislikes you. Do you really think you can bring her to heel?”

  “What about her woman, Bertrada?” Thorvald ignored the challenge in Arni’s voice and redirected the conversation away from Gisela.

  “She’s an armful.” Arni chuckled. “Ripe for the plucking. She’ll soon enough make a lusty bedmate.”

  “If you can pry the prayer beads from her hand.” Thorvald grinned suddenly. It felt good to share a jest or two with his friend.

  “I bought her a brooch.” Arni pulled out the antler brooch he’d showed to Bertrada earlier. “Women love trinkets. I think to woo her a little. A loving mate is all the sweeter if you have to work for it.”

  “Aye.” Thorvald nodded. “Anything that comes too easy is never as satisfying as the battle well fought.”

  “That you have.” Arni tucked the brooch in his pocket.

  “What?”

  “A battle on your hands to win over Gisela.”

  Thorvald declined to answer. Instead, he looked away from the knowing gleam in Arni’s eyes. Why would he fight for Gisela’s love? he thought. Her worth lies elsewhere, although he had yet to discover what that might be. Perhaps he could tout her skill as a weaver, but that entailed long hours to produce anything of value.

  His nostrils flared at the imagined, sweet scent of wild rose and unbidden, his penis surged to life at the image of Gisela in his arms, in his bed, bucking and panting beneath him.

  What foolish thoughts Arni had planted in Thorvald’s head. He shook away the vision and drained his mug.

  Jabber, all of it jabber.

  * * *

  “Odso, Bertrada, don’t tell me you can be bought.” Gisela stirred the cabbage and cod then leaned back on her heels to scowl at the brooch the other woman held in her hand.

  Darkness threatened and camp fires spotted the field. The rich aroma of roasting meats and warmed bread mingled with the pungent scent of their fish stew, and Gisela’s stomach growled. With luck, Thorvald would return soon so all could eat.

  “But he gave it to me. I’m his slave. He owes me nothing, not even my life.” Bertrada pinned the brooch to her tunic and tucked a few stray gray curls into her scarf. “I like it.”

  “He wants you in his bed.”

  Bertrada giggled, a pitter patter of sound that brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. “I’ll not deny him. It’s been a long time since I slept with Bernardus.”

  “He was your wedded husband. How can you compare?”

  “Because my life has changed now.” Solemnity shone from Bertrada’s eyes, now black in the dim light. “The Viking has told me I can still follow my Christian lord. Maybe I can teach him our ways, maybe—”

  “Maybe what?” Gisela interrupted. “That he’ll marry
you?”

  “I don’t know.” Bertrada shrugged.

  “You capitulate too easily.” Bertrada’s swift acceptance of Arni disappointed Gisela and left her feeling abandoned.

  “What’s wrong with that? I’m not young anymore and my bones feel that every day. He tells me I’m to be the woman in his house, the mistress, so yes, I am pleased.”

  Of course the thought of being mistress enticed Bertrada. At Falkenstead, regardless of her position aiding Gisela, Bertrada remained a serving woman with no home of her own to go to in the evenings. As much as Gisela wished otherwise, she couldn’t blame Bertrada for embracing what she perceived to be a better life. “Do you believe him?”

  “I have to, don’t I? I’ve prayed to our lord to keep us safe and so far, He has. Why would Arni give me this…?” She touched the carved antler brooch, running one chubby finger over the intertwined hearts depicted thereon, “if he meant to do me harm?”

  Gisela had no answer to that. Too, she had no desire to stifle the happiness that made Bertrada suddenly a handsome woman. She stood a little straighter and a smile curved her lips, plumping up her cheeks. She truly seemed content with her new life with Arni.

  “Don’t you want to go home to Falkenstead?” Longing laced Gisela’s voice and she cleared her throat to hide her embarrassment over the unintentional show of vulnerability. She must be strong, would be strong. “If I can make it so, would you return with me?” A futile question, for Bertrada’s face shone with anticipation for her future, but one Gisela had to ask regardless.

  “What home?” Bertrada said bluntly. “It burned to the ground and we are the only survivors.”

  “We don’t belong here in the land of the Norsemen. They’re heathens.” Gisela knew her words only made her shrewish, knew also she was losing Bertrada. First Alda to death, now Bertrada to a different life.